


For Sam

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-28
Updated: 2009-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:25:00
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: This is an alternative ending to `All Hell Breaks Loose’ Part II in which Sam dies and Dean makes no pack to save him. God alone knows how the third series would have evolved if this had happened but it refers to some of the undeveloped themes left in series two.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

  
Author's notes: Several people have very supportively asked me to try and continue this. The risk is that the entire `story-line' of season three goes AWOL. but this is fanfic. So I will have a go.   


* * *

For Sam. 

 

By Patroclus76

 

 

It is said that when Achilles was brought news of the death of Patroclus, he fell into despair and tried to take his own life. Young Antilochus, son of King Nestor, wrested the dagger from his hand and beseeched him to avenge the death of his lover and to save the Greeks, who otherwise faced destruction. Finally Achilles agreed, yet he did so in the knowledge that his life was already forfeit - Robert Graves. The Siege and Fall of Troy. 

 

`It is an evil thing when men die and look not to it.’ Lord Stanley in Shakespeare's Richard III. 

 

 

\----------------------------------------

 

First there was only the wind blown darkness, thick under the bare veined trees and wet with the smell of earth. Then slowly, stumbling forward, his torch carving out an arch of sheeting rain, Dean saw the first of the houses. They were insubstantial, like apparitions, briefly and randomly drawn together in the night like frightened cattle. Pausing for breath, Dean shouted out Sam’s name as if it was an incantation, a binding spell that would snatch Sam free of danger and throw him majestically into the powerful safety of his brothers arms. 

 

`Dean, quit your calling!’ 

 

Bobby slipped and staggered his way to Dean’s side. His breath clouded the front of his face and his eyes were wide with fear. They had been jogging through the forest for almost an hour, blind, wayward. Bobby’s chest was tight and airless.

 

`Sam!’ 

 

Bobby turned to launch another rebuke but realised the tone of Dean’s voice was different now, no longer a question pinched with anxiety. 

 

`Look, over there!‘ 

 

Bobby glanced forward to see a tall figure zig zagging towards them, exhausted, like a man walks in his drink. 

 

`Wait Dean -’ 

 

But Dean had recognised Sam before Bobby; caught his scent, the radiant heat of his brother‘s love. Dean’s body language relaxed, his face breaking out in a smile but then a shadow, something vague and incoherent, appeared behind Sam and moved towards the younger Winchester with cold precision. It the wet fug it was hard to make out who or what it was, white starring eyes, a demon, no - a black youth in fatigues? But before either Dean or Bobby could think further or move there was a blur and rush of movement, a penetrative lunge and a single, piercing cry and Sam’s arms exploded up in a gesture of surrender. 

 

`SAM!’ The name tore from Dean’s lips. It was not a voice he recognised, but something bestial, a scream. It filled the world around him with a yawp of rage and terror. Dean broke cover, dashing for Sam as his brother crashed down to his knees like a giant tree felled without warning. Bobby, gun cocked, roared forward like a bull directly at Sam‘s assailant and drew rapidly away into the glowering darkness of the houses. 

 

When Dean took Sam in his arms the younger brother seemed not to recognise him at first. Sam’s face was shockingly raw, his eyes locked in a frown, the broad shouldered torso limp. 

 

`Sam, Sam! Sam it’s ok, it’s ok. I’m here now. I found you!’

 

`Dean?’ 

 

The voice was thin, a tone of incredulity and then his head flopped forward, hitting Dean’s collar. Dean shook him, the head lolled, fell forward again.

 

`Sam!’

 

Sam‘s lips parted and the wind blew his hair over his forehead like a caress. For a moment there was a soft grey gleam in Sam’s half closed eyes, like pale winter sunlight, and then an empty, eternal stare. 

 

`Sam! NO! NO!‘

 

Dean's brother’s cheekbones were silk smooth, dabbed with bloody fingers like war paint. Dean crushed him into a tight embrace as if to keep the life in him, as if Sam's spirit was a fickle thing with half a mind to stay. As if Dean’s own life force could reanimate the physical beauty that was Sam and burn him back into the world. 

 

`SAM!’

 

Dean screamed again, an animal howl of unimaginable, irretrievable loss that rattled the dark night, and then he crashed into Sam again, his hand on the back of his neck, pressing him into his own body. Already Sam’s warmth was fading, drawn out into the chill wet air. Weeping, Dean's arm reached the sticky mess of Sam’s lower back, torn wide with a deep thrust of a knife. He knew then with chilling finality that Sam was dead.

 

`God no. No! Please God no!‘

 

It was not possible. It was not in the nature of the world that Sam could die. Not yet, not here in this place and in this way. It was a mistake, a joke. He half expected to feel Sam jerk awake and, laughing, swing up and kiss his brother on the lips. For a moment Dean even started to smiled at the audacity of Sam’s dare and then he felt again the hole in his brother’s lower back, the waxy coldness of his face and the realisation that Sam’s body was empty, an abandoned husk, never to speak or smile again. Dean closed his eyes and howled. 

 

Sam’s dead weight pinned them both down into the dark spreading mud for what seemed an eternity. The black peaty water chilled Dean’s thighs and knees but he stayed on, clinging to the wreckage of his life and its true meaning. When Bobby returned he saw them like that, on their knees pressed into each other, symmetrical in their form like a child who prints its wet hand and then folds the paper. Mirrored one on one, hinged together at the neck, they looked almost in prayer. Their intimacy was almost too much for Bobby who had let the quarry slip away, misled and panicked by the empty maze of streets and faint with exhaustion. He could see immediately that Sam was dead, already half planted into the earth and the dark rich decay of soil. And he could hear Dean sobbing and cursing God and calling down the fury of heaven. To his own surprise perhaps, Bobby’s eyes weld up with tears. 

 

He had always suspected that Sam and Dean had taken each other as lovers. Whatever their respective promiscuity, Bobby had often seen the quiet coded signals pass between two men that no woman would ever separate. It had been a sort of magic, especially given Dean’s temperament, to see Sam frown, smile and narrow his eyes and then watch Dean come to heel, like an angry colt sensing his young master. That sort of power was rare to behold. And yet while Bobby had loved Sam he had always been equivocal as to who Sam was, unsure what it was that walked besides the young man in his tall beauty. Good or evil? However green Sam could appear, there had been old wisdom in that pretty face, a knowledge of the world in its making, but whether Sam was of the light or the darkness Bobby had never known for sure, except perhaps now. 

 

Bobby wiped his face and beard and struggled towards Dean. For a while he stood stupefied, aware of the empty, gaunt ruins around them that watched and whispered maliciously, crowding in. They were hopelessly exposed to attack and Bobby knew instinctively that, for a while, Dean was lost to him or worst still, a liability to them both. 

 

`Dean man, come on, let’s get him inside.’ 

 

For a moment there was no movement, no recognition that Bobby had spoken at all, and then slowly Dean looked up, his face lost and wild, almost dehumanised with pain. Blood, presumably Sam’s, lay smeared on his mouth and chin as if Dean has tried to breath him awake in one final desperate act. 

 

`Dean - come on!’ 

 

`Ok, ok!’ 

 

They fought hard to grip Sam in the cold wet, their fingers numb and raw. At one stage Sam almost fell sideways like a dummy in some grotesque pantomime, caught only just in time by Dean who, breathless and almost comatose, slipped his hands under the neck and the crook of the boy’s knees and pulled him free from the sucking greedy earth. They had then staggered to the nearest house, an old postal office with a side room and the remains of a single cot. There Dean had laid his brother out, on his back, his face turned away and his arms casually by his side as if he had drunk himself into a stupor and needed time and patience to wake up. The illusion to the peace of sleep was extraordinary. By now it was dawn, and the wet silver light coated Sam’s face pearly blue. Ghostly smooth, he looked like a statue found from some ancient temple and brought back into the world’s morning, a young god, coy but powerful, faking his own death.

 

Dean sat holding Sam’s hand to his lips. Bobby looked at Sam’s face and then anxiously at the older Winchester. The morning would bring them some respite, but they had to move soon and moreover Sam would have to be burned. The covenant between soul and animal was broken. In a few hours the limbs would stiffen and then would come the sweat brown smell of decay. It was more than Dean could probably deal with, and for a while Bobby stood pensive and silent, chewing his lip, afraid to test Dean’s mood but more afraid to leave him alone to his madness. 

 

`Dean. Dean we have to burn Sam. You have to let him go.’

 

Trance like Dean looked up but said nothing. Bobby walked carefully into the room and stood at Sam’s feet. Before the fatal blow, Sam had been hit hard on the lower chin by a fist or a wide blunt object. A great bloom of bruise and blood stood out, drawn down into his neck and the open throat. 

 

`No one came for him.’ said Dean quietly and with an odd calmness. Unsure as to his meaning, Bobby grated his beard hard and shook his head. What could he say? What words were there to undo the monstrosity of what they had seen?

 

`You came, Dean.'

 

`No one came, Bobby!’ Dean’s voice was light with sarcasm. `Not even his god! Especially his god! The god he prayed to every night!’ and then he laughed, genuinely amused but half in spite. `The same god my mother prayed to, incidentally!’ and then Dean sprang up and roared `Where the fuck were you, God! You son of a bitch!’ with such intensity that Bobby leapt backwards. 

 

`Dean! Dean stop this. We have to burn Sam and get help. Something big is happening here, I mean, end of the world big!’

 

`Then let it end!’ 

 

`You don’t mean that! You can’t!’

 

`Can’t I!’ Dean’s face was twisted with rage, chalk white, the eyes dark and wild. `Haven’t I given enough! haven’t I sacrificed everything! My mother, my father, Sam? And what am I now, Bobby, what is there left, when all that is good in me has been dug out and taken away! Nothing! I am nothing without him! I never was!’ 

 

A sob tore through the man in front of Bobby, like a physical blow, and Dean threw himself down at Sam’s side. Stung by the scale of his grief, Bobby struggled to find a voice, to choke back his own fear. 

 

`You can’t believe that, Dean! Do you have so little opinion of your own worth? Do you think Sam loved you because you were worthless and without purpose!’

 

A patch of early yellow sunlight spilt onto Sam’s shoulder and touched the corner of his cheek bone. It seemed to centre the room and to calm the men who lapsed into their own thoughts. It made Sam look contemplative, as if he was frowning slightly at the argument in front of him. 

 

`Get me some water.’ whispered Dean eventually, his hands pressed against his skull as if he was in physical pain. `And there is some fuel in the car, and a sheet.’

 

Bobby paused to consider how wise it was to leave Dean alone, but the request seemed considered and reasonable. He needed some air, anyway to clear his head. 

 

`Sure. Sure, Dean.’

 

Bobby returned with a pitch of water which Dean then insisted he heated. Bobby tried to point out the absurdity of the request but eventually complied, touched by Dean’s quiet persistence. As he piled up an open fire, Dean gently stripped Sam’s body by removing his boots and peeling away the fouled clothes. The tall athletic body was pale white now, with rills of blood settled into the buttocks and thighs. An old tan line stood out across Sam’s toned stomach, and a wedge of old scars and cuts marked his chest like a constellation. The simplicity of Dean’s instinct to wash his brother’s body moved the old hunter to tears again. Bobby’s lineage was an old one, drawn back into the mountains and plains of his homecoming; a hunter’s boy of a hunter before him. Although no scholar, Bobby could read the land and the ancient mysteries. In many cultures the body in death was a source of pollution, something to be avoided and protected against, even appeased. He smiled gently to himself to see Dean inadvertently pay homage to Sam’s faith: or perhaps he did it deliberately, despite his anger and his pagan cynicism. 

 

Dean caught sight of the old man’s look. For the first time since Sam’s death. Bobby thought he saw a trace of a smile on Dean‘s lips.

 

`What? You don’t think he asked me to do this! You don’t think that Sam thought about this stuff! Always thinking, planning ahead, asking questions.’ Dean stood up and moved towards Sam’s rucksack. `He used to tell me that the ancestral line between primates and men was drawn not over burial, but the ritual of burial, the communal treatment of a body, grave goods, alignments.’ Tears bled over Dean’s face as he rummaged through his brother’s stuff. 

 

`He was right as always.’ said Bobby unevenly, fighting to hold his emotions in check. 

 

`Yeah, tell me about it. And when he wasn’t right it made no fucking difference. Pagans north to east, Christians east to west. Animists burned in sacred groves or near liminal open places, you know, all sky and sea, buried with totems and amulets to ease their passage.’ Dean retrieved a small bottle of Chrism, viscous and golden in his large hand. Bobby had never heard Dean speak like this before. It was as if he was speaking to Sam inside his head, talking out loud, with Sam gently chastising his doubt and prodding Dean playfully to comply. Bobby had seen Sam do that countless times.

 

`Is that myrrh?’ 

 

`Oh yes, Bobby, And only the best. Sam bought it and squirreled it away next to a fucking thesaurus and a copy of the new testament. He once caught me frying onions with it!’ 

 

Despite himself Bobby laughed, the tears back on his face, his hands shaking. 

 

`It’s all bull, of course. But Sammy insisted! Anoint me, Dean, pray for me, ask for forgiveness!’ 

 

`Sam knew that anointing the body is a symbol of the divine in all us, Dean. A recognition of that which is numinous and sacred.‘ 

 

`Don’t!’ said Dean curtly. He poured a drop of oil into the palms of his hand and gently massaged Sam’s cold sculptured face, the boned forehead, the rune of vein and cheek and down in gently arcs to the broad wide shoulders. He did so with particular care and intensity and Bobby, unable to watch, backed away to the fire and closed his eyes tightly. In the end, cautious as to any possible movements on the road, Bobby walked to fetch the gasoline and the sheet. As he walked away he heard Dean talking in earnest to Sam, a torrent of words as if a dam had broken and carried off his reason. 

 

Dean wrapped Sam in a shroud and stitched it close to his body with gently skill. Before he covered the face, Dean kissed his brother and removed a lock of his hair, the stray threads that often hung question like over Sam’s eyes and made it his habit of swishing his head back, like a horse with a fly. 

 

They built a pyre near to the place they had last seemed Sam alive, leaving Sam‘s body guarded by salt and powerful charms against some last evil molestation. Outside they worked quickly and in silence as the morning waned towards noon. All this time they had not seen or heard any other living thing but themselves. Finally the pyre was ready, a sturdy platform with timber and debris, dry for the most part, brought out from the houses. 

 

`Should we say something? I mean? Some last words?’ Bobby hesitated, anxious not to rekindle Dean’s agony. For some time the surviving Winchester had lapsed into a strangely peaceful mood. 

 

`You mean a prayer?’ Dean said, his voice dark with irony. `A Missa pro defunctis for the departed soul of my lover?’ 

 

Bobby frowned, puzzled as to whether Dean had intended to say brother, but either term seemed appropriate at the end of all things. 

 

`Yeah. Did he ask for that?’

 

`He sure did. He asked me to beg God to save his soul and avenge his death and to protect and guide me until we would be together, united and happy, in one fucking heavenly love in!’ 

 

`Dean!’

 

`What! What is the point? I’m doing this because I loved him Bobby, I loved every inch of his crazy god damn head and every last stubborn pedantic little gesture. I’m not doing this for God or faith, or for a touch of grace! There is no god, just evil, Bobby! This is the proof! A world without divinity just full on hardcore evil without reason! No god, no angels, no hope! No one came for him, and he knew that himself, at the end. I saw it.’ his voice broke at last. `I saw it in his eyes. Tomorrow you will burn me and then on and on, right down to the last fucking hunter!’

 

`Pray for Sam, damn you, you stubborn bastard! Prey that his faith, like his love for you was more than just words. Dean, but an oath of allegiance - a promise that nothing could break!’

 

`No!’ but Dean’s voice had lost some of its brash conviction, stung by Bobby‘s temper. It sounded tired and hollow, a mere catechism of rage. And despite himself, despite his despair and his own faithlessness, Dean suddenly found himself praying for the first time in his life, slowly at first, awkward under Bobby’s stare, but then slowly with zeal and passion, his eyes streaming with tears, begging pleading ntil exhausted, he leaned down to the ground and wept. 

 

 

There came a noise then, a soft clatter as if something had moved back behind them. Fearing attack they both swung around, Bobby levelling his gun, Dean instantly attentive, focusing on the building where they have left Sam. The sun was high and warm over the clearing. 

 

`What is it? Bobby?’ 

 

The hunter walked forward tentatively, moving his head slowly. In a clatter of wings, two wood pigeons put off from the eves of a nearby cottage, startling them both. 

 

`I don’t know.’

 

`Lets get Sam!’ Dean went to rush forward but Bobby caught his shoulder. 

 

`Wait, Dean. They’re enough charms on Sam to ward off Lucifer himself. Whoever it is they’re probably human, the black army dude probably.’

 

`Fucker, then I’ll tear him limb from limb!’ Dean pushed forward, ignoring Bobby’s protest, storming across the rutted track back towards the ruined office. 

 

Sam’s body had gone. The sheet had been unstitched without damage and lay neatly folded at the foot of the cot. Sam’s clothes had gone too, neat and careful withou break or rummage and the bottle of Chrism that Dean had emptied was full again, winking its oily light, with the stopper sealed closed.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: I do have an idea where I am going with this, really.....  


* * *

Part Two: several people were kind enough to suggest I went on a bit further with some of the ideas about an alternative ending to All Hell Let Loose. 

 

\----------------

 

Sam’s body had gone. The sheet had been unstitched without damage and lay neatly folded at the foot of the cot. Sam’s clothes had gone too, neat and careful without break or rummage and the bottle of Chrism that Dean had emptied was full again, winking its oily light with the stopper sealed closed. The room felt strange and oddly scented, lit in a peculiar way as if something luminous had touched the walls and the rotted floor and left its light about in a fine mist. There was also a sense of space and enormity that no four walls could or should contain. Dean looked at Bobby who, lowering his gun, stumbled about the place, his mouth open while he examined his traps and his stratagems. The salt lines were unbroken, parallel to the windows and the doors just as he had left them. And the amulets too lay on either side of the cot like grave goods, cold and harsh in their protection. 

 

`What the fuck just happened, Bobby?‘ Dean knelt by the empty bed and put his head in his hands. He felt he had lost the one last thing that routed him back to his sanity, to the one act he had to perform before the end. Yet there was something in the room, a presence, a premonition, that both troubled and thrilled Dean. 

 

Bobby stood scratching his head. He stood by the window where the scent was strong and almost intoxicating; heady, like a blast of clean air. He looked through the missing panes out into a small courtyard messed with old barrels and boxes. There was no sign of disturbance, a blind closed space with no exit but as he turned his attention back to Dean Winchester he caught sight of a great sash of wild jasmine laced in flower, bursting out of season in the dark, dank place and trellised up the outside wall like a tapestry. 

 

`What in God’s name!’ 

 

Dean looked up at Bobby’s exclamation. `What?’

 

`I don’t know. I don’t understand, but the creeper outside is in flower, Dean, back from…’ he stopped himself mid sentence. The enormity of what he had been about to say surprised him. He sighed and then said carefully `No demon did this.’

 

`Then what did, Bobby? Where’s my brother’s body?’ Dean was standing now, swaying with exhaustion. `You’re telling me that Sammy boy just got up and went for a stroll?’ 

 

`Dean, I don’t know. But it‘s no demon.’ 

 

`People? The same dude who murdered him?’ 

 

Bobby went to answer but stopped. They had seen no signs of anyone but themselves all morning and the only entrance to the derelict house had been in front of them throughout the building of the pyre. 

 

`No Dean, not people. Perhaps Sam did this.’ 

 

The tightness in Dean’s heart was a cold metal hook stuck into his chest. Bobby’s reply was meaningless and yet somehow not impossible. Dean suddenly felt a hope that he could neither explain or as yet quite believe in, an echo of something deep within himself like someone calling his name. He wondered if his father had done this in some indecipherable way, if John’s love for Sam had gently unwrapped his brother like a precious, bejewelled gift and taken him back to God? Or had God come himself, finally, to take his own? Dean’s head ached and he wanted suddenly to sleep. The thought of God frightened him. Or was it just another trick of the devil? 

 

`Did what? ‘

 

Bobby looked uneasily at the window. `What did you pray for, Dean?‘

 

Dean didn’t answer. He wiped his face with his hands. What had he prayed for? For Sam to come back? For him to be taken in Sam’s place? Or for someone - something - to come to their aid? Hadn’t Sam begged for help? For a sign? Hadn’t Sam prayed for a vast vengeful, purifying light to sweep all before them? Dean had often heard him at night, on his knees whispering discreetly as soon as he had thought his older brother asleep. The first sight of Sam bowed in his tallness, with his hands closed and near to his lips had touched Dean deeply. It had also shocked him, as if he had been sleeping with a stranger all these years, someone he scarcely knew. Someone he could never know.

 

Dean was surprised to notice he was still crying, but soundlessly and without effort. 

`Nunc Dimittis’ Bobby said quietly. 

 

`Excuse me?’

 

`The last station of the cross, Dean. `Oh Lord let us now they servant depart in peace, according to thy word’?

 

`Yeah, right! `For mine eyes have seen thy salvation?’ Some fucking salvation this turned out to be!’ 

 

Bobby was surprised that Dean knew the prayer. For a moment the surprise showed and Dean laughed darkly. 

 

`Not me, dude! Sam used to mutter after hours; usually he muttered about me of course. But sometimes crazy boy just spoke in tongues! You know, the periodic table, the reactivity series, the spectral analysis of fucking stars Recently it was about God. God and Angels. Mutter fucking mutter. He prayed in his sleep!’ Dean then looked at the old hunter with a sort of defiance. 

 

`I prayed that Sam’s faith has not been in vain, Bobby. That’s all. No more, no less.’

 

`Then perhaps it was God, Dean. After all, Sam had his own master, besides himself, and you of course!‘ 

 

Dean sighed.

 

`I never mastered him, Bobby. He was a fucking enigma from the beginning. Sometimes he even scared me. And all that bull about me protecting and caring for him, about being his mother and father? I was the needy emotional road kill all a long. Even I saw through Sam’s fake submission in the end. He was the original Winchester mystery boy, humming with secrets! Far too clever for his own good. His love for me scared me most of all.’

 

`Why?’

 

`Because it blew me away. Every time he touched me. Nothing every prepared me for the way he made me feel. And because for one brief burning moment he made me worth something.’ 

 

They lapsed into silence, both preoccupied with the dead youth. Dean closed his eyes tightly and pictured Sam sitting up in bed hugging his knees, crying after sex as if the world had broken in its orbit and then been remade in one vast resurrection. The first time it had happened Dean had tried to make a joke out of it, tweaking Sam’s crow’s nest hair but Sam had been unreachable, literally somewhere else, inconsolable with the gift of being human. Who in god’s name was he? In the last few months Dean had been particularly obsessed with his brother. He had taken to waking himself and watching Sam while he slept to see if he looked different or became something else. And recently he had found himself searching Sam’s shoulder blades in the dead of night with a torch, reading the deep rune of muscle and bone that ribbed Sam’s upper back like a map or an ancient manuscript. What in god’s name was he looking for? His own name, branded onto Sam? The 666 of the diabolical trinity? Or had he been simply looking for wings? Naked black ones with spikes and webbing or great white ones with feathers. Once Sam had turned mid inspection and, arching around to put his back firmly down onto the bed, had pulled Sam into his arms and said `twelve’ in his sleep. Dean had laughed. 

 

`Twelve what, dream boy?’

 

`Carbon.’ 

 

`Carbon?’ asked Bobby, mystified. 

 

`Yeah. The atomic number of carbon, apparently.’

 

Dean sniffed hard. `To Sam Winchester. The poor man’s Google.’ but that is not what he had wanted to say. He had wanted to say that when he lay with Sam he had no idea where he began and Sam ended, no sense of separation, as if they had been welded together soul to soul and then washed ashore, orphans of the storm. 

 

Bobby nodded his head sadly, as if he sensed Dean’s self censorship. He was thinking about the small boy with his mother’s eyes left to his brother’s keeping on the road, the rebel son who fought his fate and abandoned, for his time, the calling of his fathers. Perhaps Sam had scared Bobby too? Too attentive, too all seeing, a brooding mercurial beauty. Hadn’t it all started with Sam? A fire from heaven? Bobby wanted to say something to Dean but in a language he could not yet understand. Hadn’t the demon come for Sam? Hadn’t Sam been damned? Or was he still missing something? Could you be both a demon and an agent of God?

 

`Sam was special.’ Bobby said evasively. 

 

\-------------------------

 

They stood for a while looking at each other until the passing day stung them into some sort of action. Dean was for searching out the black dude and the yellow eyed man, while Bobby was for returning home and regrouping their war effort. In the end, Dean’s will prevailed. Dean took the bottle of Chrism and placed it in the inside pocket of his dad’s leather coat. Then they stepped out into the fading day to find that the pyre had gone too, complete and soundless in its vanishing, as if they had both dreamed it. 

 

`This place is cursed! It should be raised to the ground and salted!’ spat Dean and then they trudged off in search of Sam’s assassin. Dean thought of how he would kill the army man, how his blood would feel when he broke the body with his bare hands, and the thought of violence kept the image of Sam out of his thoughts, the feel of his touch, his young man’s smell, the way he shook his head when impatient or angry; a prelude to a lecture, a mild rebuke or a declaration of love. They had all sounded so curiously similar. Dean ground his teeth together and his jaw flexed, shooting pain into his gums. In his head something was screaming for release. He was only half of the man he had been. 

 

They made little progress at first. The gaunt deserted streets were overgrown and ruinous. For the most part the town had sank softly back into the forest, blooming into the black and yellows of an insidious and irreversible decay. There was for a while no trail, no sign at all and then Bobby found a set of tracks breaking off and heading into the tree line, a broad slash made in the dark without a care for concealment, big booted feet at that, driven on by fear or favour. After a long trek they came to the remains of a camp site; a blackened ring of stone and the rutted lines left by a body squatting to the ground. A little further on they came to a stand of young silver birches, thrust up like a thicket of spears and Bobby found tyre marks on a heavily mudded road. 

 

`He’s away, Dean. There’s no catching him now.’

 

Dean spat and cursed and kicked the ground. The short day was almost spent and darkness was thickening from the East. They stopped at the camp again, resting and listening to the dripping trees. 

 

`Very Blair witch.’ Dean sneered, scratching about the cold ashes of the fire. He bent down close to the pungent damp ground. `Two people were here. Someone sat there, someone here, by the fire.’ 

 

Bobby came over. Dean was right. The demon and his assassin had conversed here, the joker and the thief. `I wonder what it was they talked about?’

 

`How to rule the world, probably.’ Dean stood up and as he did so he thought he caught sight of someone away to their right, under the trees. A shock of cold surprise and fear rolled down his spine. Bobby caught the expression on his face and turned to look as well. It was almost completely dark by now yet for a moment Bobby thought he saw something tall and still watching them intently. Bobby cocked his gun and moved forward. 

 

`Stay with me’ he whispered, conscious that Dean might shy and start and then bolt off in anger. They walked on slowly but when they arrived they found nothing but a tall ancient rowan tree, its bark grey white like paper. Displaced from the cold winter chill the tree still bore berries, blood red and clustered like a vine. Absent mindedly, Dean touched them. It was almost a caress. Bobby lifted his gun so the barrel pointed skyward and sighed. Above the stars were winking out in a chill vault of sky; Orion resplendent, astride the horizon. 

 

`We’re tired, Dean. Come on. Let’s get back to my place while we still have time.‘ But then Bobby noticed something white in the rot and debris of the tree roots. Stooping down to investigate it, he saw it was a flower. Next to it was the imprint of a naked human foot, branded clearly into the ground like a symbol of possession. Then another. And another. 

 

`Someone was definitely here!’

 

Dean started at Bobby’s exclamation. The old man rose slowly and turned to the Winchester boy. He held out his hand, palm up, and Dean saw a thing of such delicacy that surprised by his own reaction, he frowned questioningly and then gingerly picked it up between finger and thumb. 

 

`What is it?’ 

 

`It’s a wood anemone, or wind flower, a flower associated with Adonis, loved of the gods. They are mentioned in the New Testament and are associated with miracles. And look -’ 

 

Bobby gestured away from the tree in disbelief and Dean saw that in the dark cold a great haze of white flowers illuminated the forest floor like a scented carpet. The sight was both beautiful but chilling. And as Dean gazed into the forest he saw a man standing, half turned towards them, the body language half curious, half reproachful. And despite the poor visibility he knew instinctively that it was Sam.


End file.
